Late in the day the fog wrung itself out like a sponge in glades of rain, sieving the half-invisible cove with speartips;

Lost aboard the roll of Kodac– olor that was to have super– seded all need to remember Somerset were: a large flock of winter-bedcover—thick—

In memory of Father Flye, 1884-19… The strange and wonderful are too… The protea of the antipodes—a grea… globed, blazing honeybee of a bloo… for sale in the supermarket! We ar…

An ingenuity too astonishing to be quite fortuitous is this bog full of sundews, sphagnum… lines and shaped like a teacup. A step

Like the foghorn that’s all lung, the wind chime that’s all percussi… like the wind itself, that’s merel… in a terrible fret, without so muc… as a finger to articulate

While the sun stops, or seems to, to define a term for the indeterminable, the human aspect, here in the West Village, spindles

Force of reason, who shut up the s… foul Furies in the dungeon of the… led whimpering to the cave they li… beneath the rock your city founder… who, equivocating, taught revenge…

The West Village by then was chan… the rundown brownstones at its far… would have slipped into trendier h… impervious to trends, behind a pot… rubber trees, with three cats, a c…

For whatever did it’€”the cider at the Ship Inn, where the crowd from the bar that night had overfl… singing into Southey’€™s Corner,… an early warning of appendicitis’€…

A vagueness comes over everything, as though proving color and contou… alike dispensable: the lighthouse extinct, the islands’ spruce-tips drunk up like milk in the

Tufts, follicles, grubstake biennial rosettes, a low– life beach-blond scruff of couch grass: notwithstanding the interglinting dregs

The magpie and the bowerbird, its… predilection unheard of by Marco… when he came upon, high in Badakhs… that blue stone’s embedded glint of pyrites, like th…

Daily the cortege of crumpled defunct cars goes by by the lasagna– layered flatbed truckload: hardtop

cold nights on the farm, a sock-sh… stove-warmed flatiron slid under the covers, mornings a damascene– sealed bizarrerie of fernwork decades ago now

a stone at dawn cold water in the basin these walls’ rough plaster imageless after the hammering